Before the Storm
by Tharan
Summary: Based on a wprld i made up myself. This isnt as good as i can do now. Meh. Fluffy Romance. PG 13 only for mild language.


Davian ran his hand along the hull of the fighter, the paint scratched and pitted from the war. His fighter. His only joy in a world of sorrow. Memories of old dogfights and the satisfaction of painting more kills on the fuselage flooded back into his mind. Memories of friends lost and made. To him, flying was the closest thing to heaven, and heaven was hard to find nowadays, after the plague, after they colonized the skies.

His hand neared the engine compartment at the front of the aircraft and he patted it with affection, a metallic sound reverberating in the dark hanger. The fighter seemed to have a stubborn attitude towards any kind of repair work or modifications, springing leaks and stalling engines, but Davian knew if he took another fighter he would take her back within the week. She was far from rickety, but she had her scars, old and new.

He smiled at the plane. "How ya doin' old girl?" Why was he whispering? To avoid disturbing the blanket of silence that covered the Barracks and dock? No, it had just seemed appropriate for the coming battle. The Battle to end all battles in the skies of earth, if they won. The battle to unite all of the floating cities, if they won. He tried not to think about the odds of completing that task, and failed. _It's a goddamn suicide mission! How are we going to get out of this one, old girl?_ He grabbed onto one of the machinegun barrels and hoisted himself onto the wing, feeling some strange satisfaction. It seemed so long ago, but it had been less than four months.

Every once in awhile fate works to your advantage. _Nobody was taking charge, I had to do it! We would have scattered without a leader!_ An opportunity presented itself, and he took it. There was no other way to put it. He nodded at his own reasoning, and climbed into the cockpit. Everything was just where he had left it. That little hole in the seat where the stuffing came through, the way his hand fit around the stick, he remembered it all. He looked up from the stick and stared out of the cockpit at the closed hangar door. The door would open in the morning, letting out all of the fighters and bombers in a storm of lead and rockets. But if they were a storm, the enemy was a hurricane. He knew he couldn't sleep. Not before the storm. So he contemplated all the lives he was betting, the odds against them. How was it his right to put his soldiers in unnecessary danger? He shook his head, reminding himself that it was indeed necessary, and needed for the survival of the human race. But why can't the hurricane just add its power to the storm? Why don't they listen to common sense?

There was a military saying, and all commanders knew it. An old friend taught him the phrase. The wreckage of his fighter marked an anonymous grave on the surface. Use the lives of your troops, but don't waste them. But what was this? Lives used, or lives wasted? How are no survivors acceptable loses? He hated that word, acceptable loses, but it was something he had to live with.

He heard footsteps approaching the plane and he looked over his shoulder at the new arrival. It was her, in the standard issue boots, pants and shirt they give to everybody in the city. She strode towards him with a strange, confident grace that only added to her beauty, and he wondered for the millionth time if what he felt was love or just infatuation.

She swung onto the wing the same way he had, and walked along the wing towards him. She sat on her heels facing the cockpit and smiled at him fondly. Her raven black hair fell over her shoulders and her sharp green eyes looking him right in the face.

"I thought I would find you here, Davian." Sympathy showed itself on her beautiful features. "You miss it, don't you?" The latter was a statement rather than a question. His heart was pounding in his chest and he managed not to stare at her, barely.

"Yes. I… I wish I could fly with the men. It feels wrong… I don't know, Chels." Chels was her nickname. Her real name was Chelsea, but she hated it and told everybody to call her Chels.

"The men trust you, Davian. They would do any damn thing you told them to do. But don't take my word for it. I'm just a mechanic, not even in the Air Force. I'm here because I'm the best at what I do. Before the war, the military didn't give a damn about my garage. But they needed the best, and they found it." She laid a hand on his shoulder and looked pointedly at him.

He suddenly realized he was shirtless, for he had not bothered with one when he decided sleep was impossible. He wore only his pants, his boots, and his dog tags. Face reddening, he picked at the hole in the seat and thought that if he survived this battle, he would patch it up. Maybe she wouldn't notice. Only a quarter of the lights were lit, and it was rather dim. He usually wasn't this modest, but something changed when Chels was around. "Tell me, Chels, are my men being used, or wasted?"

Her silence stretched into seconds that felt like minutes and minutes that felt like hours. After an unbearable wait, she finally said something. "You can't sleep, can you? I can't either, Davian, because I know that tomorrow morning, every person in the entire city is almost certain to die. Everybody knows it, but they don't care, do you know why, Davian? Because every single one of those men has a reason to fight, and their willing to fight for that reason until they take their last breathe. You want to know why this has to happen? Because when the Ancients comeback, they will want earth all to themselves. That's why they released the plague, Davian. We have to be one nation, able act towards a single purpose. Not five, or ten, or fifty. One purpose. We have to do this because if we are not together, the ancients will get what they want, and humans will be as extinct as any animal is on the surface." She was not angry, or even frustrated, with him. But her voice had firmness in it, and something in her eyes told him to stop being afraid and believe in the human race. "We are going to win, Davian, because we have no choice." He nodded, and for the first time, felt great pride in the army he had formed, and its purpose. Pride for his men. She must have seen it, because her eyes brightened and she smiled. "I'm glad I could help you." She got up from her sitting position on the wing, and took a step away from the cockpit. "Wait! Chels…" He paused, and decided it was time to do something he had wanted to do for a very long time. He vaulted the small pane of glass between him and the wing, his dog tags swinging with the sudden movement, and hoped she loved him back. He was certain it was love, now. All of his old confidence and cockiness seemed to come rushing back, and he was grateful for her and what she had said. He grinned at her. "Why do you give a damn about me, Chels? How come my rank doesn't scare the hell outa you? Nobody talks to me like you do."

She grinned back and took a step back towards the cockpit, towards Davian. "'Cause I met you before all of this, and I know you for the rogue you really are. In other words, I'm your friend." She tried not to look at his half-naked body, and succeeded, only to start the battle all over again. He was a very handsome man. And he did train with the Marines, which made him look even better. She had a secret, which she had not told anyone else; she knew she was head over heels for him. Every time she talked with him she just wanted to lean over and kiss him. She wondered if he felt any of the same feelings toward her, she hoped he did. He walked towards her, his boots making small metallic clangs with each step. Passing the distance a close friend would stand; he just kept on walking, coming closer and closer… Close enough for a kiss… She felt his hands snake around her waist, and he pulled her closer. She could feel his heart pounding just as hard as hers and her breathing quickened slightly. His lips were just a few centimeters away from hers, and he whispered; "Do you think we could be more than friends, Chels?" _Yes! Oh, Davian, I promise your fighter will never breakdown again if you kiss me now!_ But she couldn't say anything. Her arms wrapped around his neck as if on their own accord, and she could feel his hand softly stroking her back. She never felt safer in her entire life. He looked straight into her eyes, and from this distance, they filled her vision. He had beautiful brown eyes. She hoped her green ones looked just as beautiful to him.

Her knees felt weak and she was glad for the support he offered. Finally her tongue unfroze, and she managed say the one thing that mattered most. "I love you."

If there was any distance between them, it was gone now. He tightened his hold on her waist and brought his mouth even closer, if that were possible, to her lips. "I love you too, Chels. I was afraid you wouldn't." She closed her eyes and felt his lips caress hers. Her heart felt as if was about to burst from her chest. Slowly releasing one of her hands from around his neck, she gently ran her fingers along his cheek and jaw line, savoring every moment of the kiss. She kept saying his name in her mind, his wonderful name, the name of the man she loved.

He broke the kiss and she said, breathless, "Your plan worked, Davian." He looked at her in mock outrage. "I planned not a second of this!"

"You're a horrible liar." He grinned at her, and she rested her head on his bare chest. She traced the thin metal chain around his neck, her fingers eventually reaching the small, rounded edge metal rectangle that was his I.D. tag. Her fingers felt the small letters and numbers indented on the metal.

Pvt. Jenkins, Davian A.

Serial: 3680 T917 524

APAF, Red Eagle Squadron


End file.
